


Soft Touch

by Violetwylde



Series: Martin RPF [2]
Category: British Actor RPF
Genre: Body Worship, Cunnilingus, F/M, Vaginal Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-23
Updated: 2019-01-23
Packaged: 2019-10-14 21:07:49
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,285
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17515910
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Violetwylde/pseuds/Violetwylde
Summary: Inspired by the prompt: Great Violet, oh goddess of smutty Martin fics, would you like to write me some filthy times with him and a bigger woman? Round and soft and big breasted with squishy thighs... let this man worship a chubby woman's body!And can I just say, this was a pleasure to write!





	Soft Touch

Soft fingertips on your shoulders, ten points of warmth sinking into your skin, quickening your pulse. His breath at the nape of your neck, his lips tickling the fine hairs.

“Let’s get this off,” he says, fingers slipping under the straps of your negligee.

In a whisper of satin you’re left standing nude. Like him. You can feel the heat of his chest against your back, like a phantom. The not-quite touch sends a thrill through you.

Petal soft kisses against your neck and his hands are whispering down your sides—the dip of your waist and the generous curve of your hips. He traces the tops of your thighs, fingers dancing inward, nearing that place where you’re slick with anticipation.

His hands pull back, leaving you breathless. Restless. Aching for more.

But his fingers are gliding up, over your soft belly, and trailing along the heavy curve of your breasts. His touch is just the ghost of sensation on your skin, teasing your nipples into hard peaks. Then he’s moving on—one hand moving down to cradle you across the middle, while the fingertips of the other brush up to your collarbones, your throat.

It’s maddening—this meandering exploration, these fleeting touches. You want to shout at him to touch you properly already; to take his hands in yours and cup one against your breast and press the other into the silken heat between your legs. But these delicate touches are casting a spell that you can’t bring yourself to break. So you whimper instead and press back into him.

The hard length of his cock snugs up along the curve of your ass, and you can feel the warm smear of precome on the small of your back. He presses his mouth to your ear and whispers things that make yours knees weak. He’s wet for you. Aching for you. Wants to slip inside you and wring pleasure from your body.

“Been thinking about you all day. Your soft lips and big tits and dripping cunt.” He moves his hands, tucks them between your thighs. His words drip like honey from his lips, sweet and sensuous. “Wanna kiss you, lick you, suck you. Christ, I want to fuck you. Wanna come inside you.”

As if to emphasize his point, he dips his fingers into your soaking folds, f asking out a ragged, “Yes.”

“Lie down,” he says, encouraging you with nuzzle to the side of your neck, a brush of lips against your shivering skin.

The sheets are cool on your back, but he’s radiating heat as he prowls over you. His eyes are a ravaging indigo, his smile a wicked glint of teeth in the moonlight. He captures your mouth in a slow, searing kiss—taking his time to tease his tongue between your lips.   
When he finally pulls away—to press hungry kisses along your throat—you’re breathless with need, dizzy with the taste of his desire. He trails down to your chest, smearing his open mouth over the voluptuous peak of one breast and closing his lips around your tight nipple. His tongue swirls and he suckles, harder and harder as you arch up off the bed.

Overwhelmed and desperate, you reach for him—rake your nails up his back and tunnel your fingers into his silver-blond hair. You tug him off with a pop and pull him forward again, burying his face between your breasts. He smears sloppy kisses wherever he can reach, and licks messily along the valley of your chest. He could fuck you like that—squeeze your tits and push into the channel in between. His balls would rub against you and his cock would pump into the soft cleave of your breasts, and he when comes he’d paint your chest and neck with his thick, pearly semen. _Fuck_.

But you know he’s not going to do that. Not tonight anyway. Because tonight he wants to be inside you.

But first.

You push at his head, telling him none too gently where you want his mouth next. His breath leaves a hot trail down your stomach and you writhe under his questing mouth. He drops ravenous kisses to the swell of your mons and finally takes his place between your thighs.

He watches you as he opens his mouth and presses his lips against yours. He kisses and licks and sucks, just like he said he would. He nibbles at your labia and curls his tongue deep, into the vestibule of your body. His nose presses against your clit as he indulges in the sweet, wet offering of your cunt.

You feel like a banquet, an extravagant feast. It’s a heady sensation. And paired with the pleasure of his mouth, it’s intoxicating.

When he finally comes up for air, his lips and chin are glistening and his eyes are wild with lust. You’d love to pull him up, kiss the taste of yourself off his tongue. But there are better places his mouth could be at the moment. You push him back down and growl, “Suck.”   
He wraps his arms around your legs, his fingers dimpling the tops of your thick thighs, and he dives deep.

His lips close around the eager pearl of your clit and he flicks his tongue—slow and considered at first, then more and more rapidly as you begin to whimper. Flicks turn into swirls, lavishing pleasure on every plane of your aching clit. And by the time he’s pulling at you with sweet, sipping sucks, your nails are biting into his scalp and his name is falling from your lips like a curse and a prayer combined.

“Martin,” you cry out. “Christ, please. I need you… Martin please.”

He tightens his grip, bruising your skin with the indelible shapes of his finger tips, and ravages you with his lips and tongue until you’re shattering apart. You buck up, again and again, as your orgasm pulses through you. It steals your breath and sends your heart into a flurry. Makes you see stars.

Galaxies form and fade away, and his mouth is still gently coaxing you through the last waves of ecstasy. Until at last you go limp and he pulls off.

“I need to be inside you.” His voice is quavering. Already undone.

“Yes,” you say and reach blindly for him, pull him toward you.

He surges forward, claiming a rough kiss, and you feel his fat prick push into you. He’s beyond the teasing mood of earlier, and his thrusts are fast and hard. You’ve done this to him: driven him mad with lust, until he’s panting and grunting, letting loose a primal urge he normally keeps tucked away. It makes you feel powerful, even as he pins you down and snaps his hips with relentless fervor.

You can feel another climax coiling, this one deep and throbbing. You moan, wanton with mounting pleasure, and begin chanting a delirious mantra of _Fuck me. Martin. Fuck me, fuck me, fu—_

Blunt teeth sink into your neck and he’s shouting into your skin as he comes. You can feel him pulsing, spilling into you, filling you up. And the thought alone is enough to send over the edge, making you shudder and contract—milking him for every last drop, until you’re both spent.

He collapses onto the cushion of your body, a panting boneless heap, and you wrap your arms around him, press a gentle kiss to his temple. Eventually you pull apart, clean up, and set the sheets to rights. He spoons up behind you, body tucking in against your curves. You fall asleep with his skin pressed against yours, and the soft rush of his breath on your neck. 


End file.
